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Oft-times its leaves of scarlet hue
A golden edging boast;
Twelve pages at the most.
Adorns its outer part;
A magazine of art.
Oft visit; and the fair
As with a miser's care.
And formed for various use,
They readily produce.
Possess the foremost page,
Or nearly such from age.
Presents in bright array
Not quite so blind as they.
What their occasions ask
Perform a nicer task.
From size to size they fall,
The last are least of all.
In narrow space, is here!
How luminous and clear !
It leaves no reader at a loss
Or posed, whoever reads :
Nor even index needs.
Search Bodley's many thousands o'er !
No book is treasured there,
That may with this compare.
Of this was ever seen,
So brilliant and so keen.
A NEEDLE, small as small can be,
Nor is my purchase dear;
As days are in the year.
The labour is not light;
To fashion us aright.
The shears another plies
Gives all an equal size.
His follower makes it fast:
The seventh and the last.
A process that obtains
And take me for your pains !
IN TRINITY COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE
None ever shared the social feast,
Their nests they weave in hope of crumbs
But strife ensues. Puss waxes warm,
And with protruded claws
At once, resentful of the deed,
She shakes her to the ground,
With still a deeper wound.
But, Lydia, bid thy fury rest;
It was a venial stroke:
Should bear a kitten's joke.
INVITATION TO THE REDBREAST
Sweet bird, whom the Winter constrains
And seldom another it can
In the well-sheltered dwellings of man, Who never can seem to intrude,
Though in all places equally free, Come ! oft as the season is rude,
Thou art sure to be welcome to me.
At sight of the first feeble ray
That pierces the clouds of the east, To inveigle thee every day
My windows shall show thee a feast : For, taught by experience, I know
Thee mindful of benefit long, And that, thankful for all I bestow,
Thou wilt pay me with many a song
Then soon as the swell of the buds
Bespeaks the renewal of Spring, Fly hence, if thou wilt, to the woods,
Or where it shall please thee to sing : And shouldst thou, compelled by a frost,
Come again to my window or door, Doubt not an affectionate host,
Only pay as thou payedst me before.
Thus music must needs be confest
To flow from a fountain above;
Unchangeable friendship and love ?
Save your generation and ours,
Or boasts any musical powers ?
The shepherd touched his reed; sweet Philomel
Essayed, and oft essayed to catch the strain,
The numbers, echoed note for note again.
A rival of his skill, indignant heard,
In loftier tones defied the simple bird.
With all the force that passion gives inspired,
Exhausted fell, and at his feet expired.
By thee, poor songstress, playfully begun !
And he may wish that he had never won.
ODE ON THE DEATH OF A LADY
WHO LIVED ONE HUNDRED YEARS, AND DIED ON HER BIRTHDAY, 1728
ANCIENT dame, how wide and vast,
To a race like ours, appears,
All thy multitude of years !
Frailer and of feebler powers;
Soon exhaust the sum of ours.